Home
by Beckett Simpleton
Summary: Arthur and Francis have reached their first Christmas together when Francis has to attend to some work in his home country, leaving Arthur to stew in the company of his own mind. Arthur only wants to win at life and love, but maybe he's thinking too hard? What can he get up to, to fill the lonely void of 8 hours until he gets to hear Francis' voice again? FrUK human AU One-shot


**Hello guys! So, this will be the first time I've ever written romance (that is about romance, I mean, I've written stuff with love **_**in**_** it) and also the first time I've written anything that has a gay pairing in. I'm not big on Hetalia romances (I mean, I'll read them if the writing's good and there's a plot) but I basically wanted to write this scenario and of all the characters in fandom, I thought Arthur and Francis would be the best for this, though I suppose I could have made up my own. But I'm lazy.**

**Also, I have never written Francis before, so… I'm in need of a lot of con-crit, if you have any to give.**

**This is written based on the songs 'Home' and 'I Will Wait' by Mumford & Sons. They are really petty songs. Go and give them a listen. I'm not going to write the lyrics down in this, but I might use the odd line here and there. (I have the feeling no one reads the lyrics anyway…)**

**As a warning, I am English, so I don't want to hear any assuming American reviewers saying 'Hey, you spelt **_**realize**_** wrong!' or 'it's 'off **_**of**_**' not just 'off'. Gets on my nerves, I always know when I'm reading something written by an American just by the grammar, and therefore make allowances; I expect the same integrity in return. **

**As a word alert, a 'do' is a way of saying 'a party.' I have the feeling that this is not a universal term.**

**Anyway, see you at the bottom!**

Arthur and Francis had been together since January last year, and so this was to be their first Christmas together. I'd say they were excited, but it'd be the wrong word - they weren't that kind of couple. They just loved each other, softly. There was no bravado. But it was Christmas, and it was about family, and there was a certain lull of warmth at the thought of sitting together in their warm flat in South London watching the sleet fall and dissolve on the orange-tinted puddles on the grey pavement just enjoying each other's company, glad they weren't facing the wind. Arthur wasn't even that bothered with all this presents and tree shit, he just wanted that day to be like home, but Francis was enthusiastic. He was happy to comply.

It would be the first time in a good few years that he'd really look forward to Christmas. He'd never really bothered with it as a child, since his mother had died when he'd been about 6 and his eldest brother, Andrew, was 18, so he'd just taken it upon himself to look out for Arthur, his second youngest brother and two middle sisters. They'd each received a present from the other, but aside from the festivities that the County Council provided for the whole of London, they didn't make too much effort. And it had been a long time since his brothers had bothered with him at all.

Francis didn't have much family either, but was a popular and loud personality who had always been surrounded with friends to look out for him. There was no twist. It wasn't like he didn't have any close friends, or in a time of need, they'd all turn away – it was just so. Life was not a story book. Arthur, a slightly lonely Englishman had met the flirtatious Frenchman on a short business trip, as they both worked for their respective governments. At the actual meeting, Arthur had briefly noticed the good-looking man from across the table, but he was quite a focused person, so he was able to keep on topic while vaguely wondering if he'd meet the man afterwards.

Arthur wasn't exactly a party person, but in all respect to him, he did make an effort and take part in light conversation while trying to keep off the alcohol, as he couldn't really hold his drink well. He did not want to end up crying, or even worse, singing in a drunken stupor. The party was posh, and dreary. Arthur was not a posh person by upbringing, and always felt slightly stuffy in this environment.

Francis, however, was a little more upper class, and was perfectly at home at parties, though admittedly, he'd rather be attending a more exciting do. He had also noticed the other at the meeting before hand and had been drawn to him almost immediately. Despite it seeming like Francis was a sucker for anything that moved, he wasn't some kind of sex offender, and he certainly did not sleep around. No harm could ever come from flirting, surely?

Arthur had seemed quietly flustered and busy, but quietly, and calmly, it was an odd thing to watch. He'd noticed Arthur look at him for a little longer than a glance, and then go back to work, and he couldn't help being interested. He wanted to talk to that person, to know about him, to share some time with him. He had no idea why.

The two of them hadn't exactly gotten off to a T. Francis had wandered over to Arthur and struck up some random conversation about the trading between Britain and France, which he knew was boring and that the Englishman didn't want to hear about it. And then before he knew it, several glasses of wine and a taxi later they had some weird kind of friendship.

It had been an odd relationship starter; since romantic attraction hadn't been the thing on their minds. Francis was _interested_ in Arthur (though admittedly he found him good looking) and Arthur was just glad for the company. In time though, they sort of fell on each other and melted together, like play-dough left next to a radiator, forming their own weirdly interlocked colour that couldn't be pulled apart.

There was nothing sickly sweet. They were not the new 'thing.' They did not go 'homemaking' or any shit like that. Arthur owned a small flat in South London which was quite sweet looking, once Francis had had his way with it, Arthur arguing along the decorating process, but agreeing on the finished look in the end.

Francis worked over the internet whenever he could, or through letters, but of course, he often needed to be in France himself, a webcam could only get you so far. At least once a month, Francis left the older of the two alone for a few days. Nothing sappy would be said, and Arthur would wish him good day, and send his love, and maybe even kiss him at the airport, but upon the day of his arrival back home, the younger always came home to Arthur waiting for him, watching some TV series blankly. He'd smile slightly, in the dim light upon seeing Arthur, silently feeling quite thoroughly loved as Arthur stood up and wrapped his arms around his neck loosely, a quiet, honest smile pulling at his lips. And how could Francis ever resist that face?

This time, it was the 20th of December and Francis was supposed to be on leave (Arthur had insisted that he could look after himself, damnit, and that he'd been doing do for the past twenty-odd years) and so it had been a rather unpleasant surprise when Francis had received a call telling him that there was some _urgent_ need for him and reassuring him that he'd be back for Christmas. Arthur had said that if there was such a rush, he had no problem with staying in France for Christmas, but Francis had shot him down. England was where their home was, and he was forever trying to pull the Kirkland family together - against Arthur's will - and so he refused to drag the youngest brother away to another country for the holiday. Arthur had grumbled, but complied.

The shorter man hung his arms around Francis' neck like he did, like a trademark.

"Be back soon," Arthur whispered, unconsciously taking in Francis' almost overly perfume smell.

"I promised, did I not, petit Artie," he replied.

"I'm not little," Arthur said quietly, and a little half-heartedly. "You're just tall."

A moment like that stretched out in comfortable silence. A Christmas card scene in the early morning orange glow from the streetlamp outside the window where rain drizzled down.

"Goodbye," Arthur sighed, pulling himself away against his own will.

Francis gave his goodbyes too, and left, the door clicking softly behind him.

The house seemed a lot colder all of a sudden. Arthur ignored the loneliness and told himself he was used to it. He boiled the kettle and made a cup of tea, sitting on the kitchen worktop to drink it. He was alone.

To his own surprise, a lonely tear trickled down his cheek and fell into his tea with a soft 'plop.'

He realised, now, what Francis was worried about, leaving him on his own, when he insisted he was fine 'he'd been alone before.' It was the going back to loneliness, that was the horrid thing.

He supposed he'd better do something with himself, so he didn't end up sitting and crying like some little girl. He placed his only half finished tea in the sink and went to get his coat and gloves. He's take the Underground to Hyde Park, he decided. It was one of his favourite places in London

Arthur had always been a man about the ways of the country he lived in, and the people no one bothered with, and no one cared about, but had never been listened to, because he'd always been those people; crushingly poor in his childhood, or working class as he was now. Though he knew that few people stopped to listen, it often felt nice to get things off his chest, so once or twice, he had gone to say his bit at Speakers' Corner in Hyde Park. He had nothing to say to the loneliness today though. Maybe he'd just listen.

He walked aimlessly down the road, wondering to himself, 'bus, or Underground?' The bus was slightly lonelier, but then, the Underground had a sense of being ignored. Still, the Underground had something on him. He didn't know why – maybe it had been for that while where he and his brothers had been cast of onto the streets and they'd decided to camp out under Finsbury Park before they'd been shooed off.

It had stopped snowing, and though the snow was bright and crisp in some places, it was turning to slush under the wheels of the busses. He mapped in his mind, Northern Line, five stops, change over at Leicester Square for the Piccadilly to Hyde Park Corner. It sounded like that damn woman's voice in his mind too. 'This train terminates at High Barnet change here for alternative rail services,' would probably be engraved into his mind for the rest of his life. If you hung around London for too long, it started to engrave itself into your bones.

He sighed and slipped only slightly on the compact snow that was just as slippery as the ice a few days beforehand. He had the urge to skid across it. Now that he had 'fancy shoes' as his brother called them when they were kids. Almost Winklepickers, flat and smooth on the bottom, black and smart-like. But he'd never be that smart, he'd had the shoes for years and they were badly creased across the bridge and at the tips, the sole was coming away a little, but most importantly; no grip. He could if he wanted to. He wanted to.

He ignored himself and trotted down the steps under the red circle blaring 'UNDERGROUND.' Past coloured maps, 'Kennington Station,' 'Kennington Station,' 'Kennington Station.'

He was trying to pay attention, but the only thing really holding him down to the fine-tuned world was human contact, and since the only human who cared about him (and he certainly didn't think in a negative way – that person was all he needed) was Francis.

There was a clatter and a gust of wind as the train pulled into the station and he pushed against everyone else who wouldn't just step back to get in the doors. He wasn't even that desperate. That was another habit.

To his surprise, there was a free seat, so he sank down between a woman reading a book with earphones in and a fat man from whom he caught a whiff of body odour and an overpowering amount of Lynx every time he turned the page in his newspaper.

Since he hadn't thought to bring his headphones, he couldn't even listen to slightly shitty quality music from his Blackberry – which he hated more and more by the day as something else went wrong with it – so he decided to contemplate what the hell had gotten into him

He'd told himself as a child, that he didn't need anyone else, and that he was fine on his own, and though he enjoyed the company of other humans, he was, in himself, complete.

And even after he'd stated seeing Francis – the man was a nice addition to the whole, the 100%. But even so, when Francis was not around, he was still himself.

But now… Something had changed. It was like Francis and he were 200, but whenever he left, another 1% was chipped away from him again and again until it started to matter - until his mind was with his partner, across the Channel, and he was in London, a shell with no real drive.

Like a crack in the ceiling that slowly got bigger while no one noticed until suddenly, it was huge and gaping and in desperate need of filling before it would just give in and collapse in its own nothingness.

And then Francis would come home and fill in has emptiness with molten silver and paint his spirit gold.

At the last minute, he got off at Piccadilly. He was going to get Francis a present. Not because it was Christmas. Just… because.

He had nothing in mind, but he just thought he'd wander around, and if he saw something, he'd pick it up.

What did Francis like?

Easy; clothes, sex and wine. And him. But he had all of those things.

Maybe he'd find something that meant something for the both of them. There was no point in buying something without meaning. He might as well just do that kissing shit that Francis was so fond of all night.

After walking vaguely through some shops and picking up rubbish like socks (he always seemed to need more socks) and a packet of biscuits (he'd eaten all of them again) he finally stumbled upon an art gallery.

Francis liked photography, right?

He pushed open the glass door, a whoosh of hot air hitting his face and making his ears and nose turn red and burn at the sudden warmth. They'd have pictures of Frenchy stuff, surely?

Looming down from the maze of small rooms were paintings of love scenes and tigers, or photographs of snowy rooftops or the Eiffel Tower. But they _meant_ nothing to him.

He was willing to just hang around and pretend to be interested just to stay in the warmth (He was more of a music man, than a pencil and paper man, if he were to label himself) when a dull photograph at A4 size caught his eye in the corner.

He walked over, his wet footsteps clicking infuriatingly loudly on the tile floor. Reaching out a gloved hand, he picked it up to scrutinise.

It was taken somewhere slightly depressing looking, tall Victorian build houses of red brick that were wet with sleet, their high, once impressive windows covered in condensation that screamed damp problems. The sky was almost a blank page, just the dark patches of rain clouds telling that there wasn't just nothingness up there.

The ground was glistening with rain water, the harsh yellow glare from the street lights reflecting in the surface, slightly shattered looking due to shards of ice forming over the puddles. There were no cars parked along the street. Just water, rain, damp and cold.

Sitting on the wet pavement, leaning against the red brick wall separating the pavement from the front gardens (they could barely be called gardens. Just paved space at the front of the house) was a small man bundled up in a cheap, black duffel coat holding a mug of something, his white blonde hair peeking out from under a grey fuzzy Russian hat. His face and mouth were white from cold, and the tip of his nose bright red, but playing on his thin lips was a small, almost 'inside joke' smile that made Arthur smile right back at him.

The cause for his smile was standing next to him, leaning against the wall too, donned in a warm looking coat and burgundy coloured trousers, his legs crossed, as casual as can be. His mouth was open to say something, nothing that everyone said, like 'how was your day' or 'how are you feeling.' From the look on his face, there was a secret, some gossip, or a story of past times, and childish stupidity.

Arthur fell in love and didn't even bother to look at the price. This was his. His and Francis'. He was getting good at this gift business.

Feeling quite pleased with himself, he decided to take the bus back home, even though it felt like (though he was always told it wasn't true) he was paying more swiping his Oyster Card on and off busses. Arthur was a stingy man. It had been taught from an early age, he supposed, and now, even as an adult, £50 felt like a lot of money, even though Francis would spend it in a few minutes. Due to his stinginess, Arthur's pay stacked up nicely in his bank account, and yet when in the supermarket, he'd always buy cheap tea, rather than Twinings, which he liked better, just because he saw the price and coughed in surprise. He'd always get cheap chocolate, Cadbury's, rather than Thornton's, just because it _looked _expensive, and children's cereals which tasted like cardboard in disguise which he had to coat with sugar before daring to eat. It was Francis' favourite thing to complain about, but he let his partner have his way most of the time, except when with proper food. And his clothes.

Francis had had to rescue him more than once from buying cheap clothes (partly because it annoyed the Frenchman because they _looked_ cheap) but mostly because in the end, Arthur kept buying the same shirt of jumper two or three times, because the stitching came loose, rather than just buying a better quality one in the first place. Arthur smirked at the thoughts of Francis' pet hates, watching the houses and people flash past outside the finger-print covered bus window.

Oh how he'd love to just be at home, in the warmth, on the sofa, sitting next to Francis.

He supposed he could just ring up Francis when he got into the house.

Arthur stepped carefully off the bus at the stop closest to their flat in case of ice on the ground here too. Deeming it safe, he began a brisk, hurried walk back to the small block of flats where he lived. Outside their door, he stamped his feet to rid his shoes of any ice and snow that might have collected anywhere and unlocked the door, not really getting any sense on warmth in stepping inside, since the heating had (he checked his watch – 2 o'clock) just come on. He took off his coat, hanging it up on the hook just on the wall by the door, and in the pocket, he stuffed his gloves and his keys and went to stand by the radiator.

Warmth.

He stepped away again when his arse began to burn.

Arthur took the photograph out of the paper package it had been wrapped in for him and stood it on the bookcase, he placed the biscuits in the cupboard and his socks in his sock draw.

What to do?

He took out his phone and rang the Frenchman, who picked up on the first ring.

"Bonjour, mon Petit Arthur, I've only been gone three and a half hours, did you miss me already?" he asked, and Arthur could hear his smile.

The Brit scowled. "No. Of course not. I just rang to tell you that… I bought you something."

"Oh!" Exclaimed Francis in genuine surprise. "What would that be - a £2 book from the second hand shop?" He laughed down the phone line, and Arthur's scowl deepened.

"Well if you don't want to know, I can easily enough take it back, you ungrateful bastard, and you liked that book!"

Francis carried on laughing. "Non, non, non, I want to know, I'm sorry. And the _book _was good, but it smelled like cats."

Arthur sighed, wandering over to the bookcase.

"It's a photograph," he told the Frenchman, who raised his eyebrows even though Arthur couldn't see them.

"Anything else, Mister Mystery?" he asked sarcastically.

"It's a photograph of two people on this street, look, I don't know why I even bothered, you're making me feel stupid now. Just come home and look at it." Arthur said irritably.

Francis rolled his eyes, though he felt a little hurt at Arthur saying that he made him feel stupid, as he had the suspicion that he made the Englishman feel like that often. "Well, since I am at stupid work now, I cannot come and look at this masterpiece that you have bought for me… From the second hand shop… For £2," he added slyly, making Arthur sigh like tin foil being crinkled on the receiver and roll his eyes. "But I'll be home in a little while, it's just some privacy law that's been broken and has got really out of hand. Not really my department, but since no one else is available, I've been dragged in. It'll probably be mended quite soon though. I'll be home in a little while, Love, don't stay up waiting or anything. I might make it back by tomorrow."

"Don't work too hard on my account, after all, it's not like I can't look after myself," argued Arthur, rather defensively.

Francis sighed. "Don't try to be all tough, Arthur. You and I both know that you're lonely. Just sit tight. I'll call you again at around 10pm."

"Don't you fucking call me lonely, I can look after myself-"

"Bye-bye Artie!" Francis sang. "I love you, even if you don't love me back you ungrateful bastard!" he chirped, hanging up to Arthur's protestant choking.

_Why do I do that to him, even though I know it pisses him off?_ Francis wondered. He shrugged and went back to work. Arthur scowled at the phone. _Why do I even like this guy? He just loves to piss me off…_

Arthur rolled his eyes to himself and dropped down on the sofa, turning the television on with the remote and began flicking through the channels.

BBC News, some drama, ITV News, Channel 4 News, some western, off air 'til 7, off air 'til 7, Jeremy Fucking Kyle, Jeremy Fucking Kyle in America, some American shit, Top Gear, Fifth Gear, some American shit, a repeat of Top Gear…

Arthur kept going on until he reached Cebeebies and gave up. He was so fucking bored. He pressed '1', as he knew was inevitably going to happen (there was never anything good on until 9pm) and sat half-watching the news.

Someone had been stabbed in South London. Great. That's be him on edge for a month. Someone went missing in Manchester. Well, he'd never trusted Manchester anyway. Something about dogs and Christmas, something about the census from last year, and that the North East was now officially shit. Well no one cared about the North East anyway. Not even the Northerners. Something about immigrants. Stuff about people over spending on Christmas and Northern Rock bank – _Why _was he watching this?

But he couldn't turn the telly off now, because it'd be too quiet and he'd get lonely.

_Alright, _he admitted to himself bitterly _I'm lonely. Happy now?_

_Yes._

_Good._

Now he was fucking talking to himself.

He stuck two fingers up at the TV to let out his frustration and went to make himself a cup of tea. Only 8 hours until Francis would call him back.

He ended up watching Jeremy Fucking Kyle with a hot water bottle up his shirt, sitting on his feet, hugging his hot mug of tea and waiting for the heating to actually warm up the house and not just the area one metre in front of the radiator.

Was this seriously his life without Francis? God, that was so sad. The guy was practically a sex offender and a fashion designer and all he had to do to down-to-Earth Arthur was kiss him every now and again and that was him hooked like some kind of heroin addict? Bloody ridiculous. Well, at least he wasn't some puppy-dog sap who looked like he'd walked straight out of The Only Way is Essex. He supposed that being _slightly_ dependent on someone he… loved… wasn't so bad. At least it was honest.

Arthur wasn't exactly bothered with being gay. He wasn't exactly a relationship starter, so Francis had just happened. If his was in… love… with him, then he supposed he must be gay. It wasn't like he hated to label himself, it was just that he couldn't give a fuck. What did annoy him was people who were most definitely gay dressing up like they had to look like some kind of… whatever the fuck it was. He just did not get why people discovered that they liked guys, and then insisted on portraying it to the world.

When he was asked (and it was rare, he didn't exactly look approachable a lot of the time) if he was in a relationship, people often assumed Francis was a woman. He never clarified this with any stranger. After all, it was the French's fault that their men's names were either woman's names or unisex names in England. And if he was _with_ Francis at the time, and he showed up after the question was answered, the looks the faces of people in question was quite amusing. Until Francis started chatting them up…

(Arthur called it that, though Francis insisted it was merely being social. The creep.)

Jeremy Kyle finished with some overweight teenage mother finding out that her father was actually her daughter's father and that her mother was a thief and also had somehow had two other kids who now lived in Australia… Even though she was a lesbian.

Well, that was an hour gone. 7 more to go.

He pretended to read Harry Potter for a little while. That killed half an hour. He had a shower, and then sat in the bath with the shower running because he didn't want to get out and be cold. That killed another half hour.

He brushed his teeth for no reason, had a cup of tea and three biscuits. Watched Top Gear (he was never sure if he liked it or not), made the bed. Washed the dishes, stood next to the radiator for a while until he burned his arse again.

Five and a half hours to go.

Played music he used to listen to as a teenager. Wondered why he liked some of it. Sang a bit, and danced around like a nutter.

Five hours.

Went on the computer, cleared out his inbox of bingo spam. Twenty minutes gone. Watched a few Live At the Apollo comedy clips on Youtube. There was another ten minutes.

Did some actual work.

Four hours.

Went to sleep and had a dream about some unicorns who had to save the world from Lord Voldemort by stabbing Death Eaters with their horns while he slid down a rainbow into Godrick's Hollow and was eaten by a giant snake. That probably meant that he was a secret gambler, would have ten kids and then die at thirty five in the dictionary of dreams.

Two hours.

He lay upside-down on the sofa with his legs dangling over the back, watching the snow begin to fall outside of the window, looking orange as it was whipped past the street-lamp glowing in the pitch black while he sang Fairytale of New York to himself.

Maybe he should just call Francis?

No.

He would not be beaten be love.

Was this some kind of competition? Some kind of game? Was he really against love like that? Was it love? What the fuck was this, maybe he was just sour?

Why was he doubting himself so much? Did he even deserve this? Why wasn't he still living on his own in some grotty flat? Did Francis even deserve this? After all, his 'lover' (God, he hated that word) was currently sitting upside down alone in their home debating over the problems he creates in his own head.

Don't even go there, Arthur said to himself.

This clearly wasn't a case of who deserved what. After all, Francis chose to be with him, and her certainly wasn't clingy, and yet, if one of them went off on their own, it was Francis.

How would he feel if Francis was at this moment, fucking some random person in France? Well, he couldn't rule out the possibility.

He honestly didn't know how likely that situation was, though he supposed that he didn't feel that cheated. Not unless he had some kind of other life over there and he was seeing his imaginary family for Christmas because he had children or something over there. Then he'd feel cheated.

But Francis was a young man. Who was Arthur to rule his life? Was he totally dedicated to Francis? Um… no. He was free to do whatever he wanted. Though they never told each other their 'boundaries' he could suss out that – well – they weren't married. No, Francis certainly didn't rule his life. Just his mind at most of the day. And that was his own choice.

After all, he _liked_ Francis. Why shouldn't he think about him all the time? If he liked to, then he'd just go ahead and dwell on him all night. It was his mind after all.

The clock tower down the road began to chime. Arthur didn't look at his phone to spoil it for himself, he just counted.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

He jumped up over the back of the sofa, grinning.

He'd won.

There was silence.

"Well fuck this." Arthur grumbled to himself.

Francis' life wasn't governed by Arthur. Of course he wouldn't call him at exactly 10 o'clock.

But he _deserved _this call! He'd wasted eight hours of his life waiting for this call. This call was the only thing in this day. Francis was the only thing in this day. This call was like… was like…

This call was like watching daytime TV all day waiting for the good ITV drama that was going to come on at 10 pm, but then it being cancelled for Newcastle United v Sunderland or something like that which only the Northerners cared about.

Maybe the football was on. He flicked through the channels.

No.

He looked at his phone, sitting innocently on the slide of the sofa, glowing with the numbers 10:07

Maybe _he _would call Francis. After all, he'd won the game already. His prize was the call.

Well… no. after all, it was 10pm, which was the standard bedtime unless for a good reason. Not quite 'escape a bad party' time, but a reasonable bedtime.

Arthur put his phone in his pocket and made himself a cup of tea, turning off all of the lights and appliances while he tried to drink it even though it was too hot. With a soft _thunk_ he placed it on the chest of drawers and got changed into his pyjama trousers, brushed his teeth and on second thought, went for a piss.

There was nothing worse than getting up at 3 in the morning and having to get out of lovely warm bed to stand on the cold bathroom tiles just because at 10pm you were too lazy to take a piss.

He took his phone out of the pocket of his trousers before he dumped them on the washing pile (he'd learned from that mistake, clearly) and put it next to his tea.

He'd get triple points if Francis called him and he was going to sleep. After all, if it meant that he was not waiting up for him (and Francis always teased him for doing that) then it meant that his day did not depend on this call, and that he did not depend on this call, and so in conclusion, he did not depend on Francis. Because that would be sad and needy. And he was neither of those things.

He drank half his tea before he became sick of himself and turned off the light, his phone still obnoxiously glowing 10:30.

Arthur was out like a light, despite having slept earlier, and despite his phone buzzing angrily across the chest of drawers at 11 o'clock until it made the deathly fall to the wooden floor, where the back clicked out of place, and skidded under the bed.

Arthur just snored.

A couple of seconds later, the screen flashed again, this time with a short piece of text.

_You old man, Artie did you fall asleep already?_

_Sorry for late, ended up going to some party. You would've loved it here tonight. Lots of slightly drunk men talking about politics. Remember?_

_Goodnight._

~*~Home~*~

Francis only felt a little bad for Arthur when he'd just decided to arrive back in England unannounced. After all, it was a surprise, right? (Though he supposed it was stuck up to give himself as a present, but then again, he _was_ wonderful…)

Arthur hadn't answered his phone call yesterday, which he'd been surprised by, since he was the kind of guy to stay up waiting for him to come home. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he came home to Arthur having fallen asleep on the sofa like so many times before, his phone in his hand, waiting for him.

But then there was the possibility that Arthur had been playing some kind of game with himself (no, not in that way) which he was often roped into by his own mind. He was usually quite a well-grounded person, but he often acted as if he had to _win _at life, and certain things meant a win, and some things meant an epic loss, which was probably how he was generally so reliable and stable. He'd never let himself have too many screw ups in case he got stuck in a downhill spiral and just died in a hole in South London.

Whatever. Either way, he didn't rule Arthur's life. He could come home and find a note from his partner saying that this was the end and that he was tired of being left alone while Francis buggered off across the English Channel every other month. He'd feel like shit, yes, but he didn't rule Arthur's life.

He just worried that he loved Arthur more than Arthur loved him. (Though judging by the slightly insecure way Arthur viewed their relationship, he probably felt the same way. After all, if nothing else, Francis certainly felt loved. Sickly as it sounded.)

Francis checked his watch. It was 5:20am. Maybe he should just get a room for the remaining night so as not to wake up Arthur. But then, what if he had been waiting up all night for him, and then… But he didn't know Francis was coming home today.

Was he really that insecure? Did he really depend on Arthur like that? Or more, did he really depend on Arthur to be dependent on _him _like that? It was selfish.

Disregarding everything else, it was his flat as much as it was Arthur's - he was entitled to go home.

Francis slowly unlocked the door to the flat and closed it as quietly as possible to try not to wake up Arthur if he _was _asleep, waiting for him.

But he didn't have to be, after all.

Still, it was just a little disappointing to see the sofa just the same as it had been when he'd left, not even the evidence of a camp. Arthur had tidied up.

He'd tidied up. Arthur wasn't a messy person, but he usually left his last cup of tea on the floor next to the sofa. Nothing. Francis looked over to the kitchen. He'd switched off all the plug sockets too.

Oh God, he'd left. He'd left, he was alone, he was gone. This was it. And he hadn't even called him to tell him. He checked his phone to see if he had one final, farewell text.

Nothing. Oh how callus and cold the British were-

"Francis, what the fuck are you doing creeping around the house at stupid o'clock in the morning?"

Francis nearly shit himself. Arthur was standing in the bedroom doorway dressed in his pyjama trousers, scratching his tummy looking like he always did before 8 in the morning.

Pissed off.

His hair was sticking up, lacking its usual attempt at order, his face was blank and stark white, and his eyes half lidded, red rimmed and in dark, tired looking sockets. Francis raised his eyebrows.

"Well you look like hell."

Arthur yawned, slouched over to Francis and wrapped his arms around his neck and rammed his face ungraciously his scarf. Francis smelled like rain and that French shit that he always somehow smelled like.

"Good morning." Francis said, his eyebrows still sitting in his hair line. Arthur was all warm and dishevelled and smelled like bed.

"Don't you 'good morning' me. You can just waltz in here whenever you please and get free hugs. I waited eight hours yesterday for you to-"

Arthur shut himself up, but it was a little too late.

"Waiting for me to 'what,' Artie?" Francis asked softly, but smirking inside.

"Fucking nothing. Fuck off, I'm going to bed." Arthur grumbled, yanking his arms away from Francis, who caught hold of his wrists and put them firmly back where they were. He changed the subject, spying the new addition to the flat resting on the bookcase.

"What a lovely picture you bought for lovely moi." He commented, bordering on sarcastic. "Is it a Christmas present?"

"No," mumbled Arthur. "It's just a present. Which I bought at Christmas. Don't label it, it loses all significance."

Francis thought of many jibes he could make at that sentence, but didn't. Maybe he should stop teasing Arthur.

"Thank you. It's pretty."

There was a short silence in which Arthur's brain had to re-compute to have a reply which was not a witty comeback or a swear word.

"Really?" He was, actually surprised at Francis' open sincerity. It wasn't that Francis wasn't sincere, just that it was always hidden under layers of sarcasm and immodesty.

Francis had a moment where he wondered what he could say to that. He had never really been… honestly anything with Arthur. Well, he loved him, clearly, and he always told him what he thought, but he wrapped it in words so much that the meaning was usually lost in a witty-retorts argument.

"Yes, but I like this more. Let's just stay like this forever, don't get old and boring and piss off by yourself."

"Who said I was going to?"

Francis rolled his eyes. "Just in case you thought you would."

Arthur smirked to himself. "Why, are you scared of being lonely? Do I mean that much to you?"

No reply.

"I think I win."

**I wanted to use a song quote for the ending, but there were no appropriate ones. **

**I kind of based the atmosphere off the song Home more than the words.**

**Lines I stole;**

'**I'll be home in a little while, Love,' from Home by Mumford and Sons. Original is 'I'll be home in a little while, lover, I'll be home.'**

'**Paint his spirit gold' from I Will Wait by Mumford and Sons. Original; 'Paint my spirit gold.'**

'**You would have loved it here tonight' as in original from Home, by Mumford and Sons.**

**So, how'd I do? How'd it feel? I had a good picture in my mind as I wrote it, but I didn't describe much except the picture, so I'd like to know. Did they seem reasonably IC?**

**You readers are the experts, because this is really not my field of expertise at all. Please do drop a line.**

**~Beckett Simpleton**


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